On Forsyte 'Change, by John Galsworthy

Aunt Juley’s Courtship, 1855

The Crimean war and the marriage of Septimus Small with Miss Julia Forsyte, which both occupied part
of the year 1855, were linked by a water picnic arranged for the entertainment of that ‘hero,’ Major Small, a younger
brother of Septimus, who had been wounded in the leg. What bound Septimus himself to the Forsyte family was indubitably
architecture, for he was a member of the firm of Dewbridge, Small and Keyman, who specialised in the domestic Gothic,
which at that period was subjugating the taste of the British Islands. Roger Forsyte, in the course of his profession —
the collection of house property — had many dealings with this firm which had designed for him a row of houses on a
site he had picked up in Kensington, then somewhat out of the world; and to Septimus Small’s riverside villa at
Twickenham Roger sometimes repaired on Sundays to consummate his plans over cigars and claret cup. After his marriage
in 1853 he would be accompanied by Mrs. Roger, and they would take her on the river, paddling with a rather deep-sea
stroke, in long whiskers, ducks, and shallow wide-brimmed straw hats, while pretty little Mrs. Roger held the tiller
and covered the boat’s stern and other matters with her crinoline. In the severe winter 1854 Septimus, a man of weak
constitution, inadvertently contracted bronchitis. He emerged with the long full beard and the cough which subsequently
secured for him the cognomen ‘Cough Lozenge’ from the young Rogers, who all made their appearance between the years of
‘53 and ‘62 — George, inventor of the nickname, having ‘56 to his vintage. There can be no doubt that it was this cough
and long beard which won the heart of Julia, then barely ‘Aunt Juley,’ since only young Jolyon, young Roger, young
Nicholas, Ernest, and St. John Hayman had been born, and were still mostly in the cradle. When, years later, she heard
that dear Septimus went about being called ‘Cough Lozenge’ in the family, she nearly had a fit.

In 1855, at the age of forty, she had a certain pink and pouting charm; but would have denied with vigour Roger’s
frequent remark to Mrs. Roger: “Juley’s setting her cap at Sep.” The idea! HER cap, indeed, when it was entirely for
HIS good, and his least cough set her trembling with a sort of delighted pity! He did so want someone to look after him
and see that he took care at night, and to trim his beard, that was so manly and so sensible, covering his chest. To
her the notion that anyone so interesting-looking, almost handsome, should be a ‘confirmed bachelor,’ as Roger put it,
was painful. Her sister Susan, too, seven years younger than herself, and already for three years wedded to John
Hayman, was always telling her how John admired her in this dress or in that, and had once gone so far as to imply that
he admired her in nothing — so daring of Susan — not quite nice!

When, then, in July of 1855 she was invited to come with Roger and his wife to this water picnic, she was all of a
flutter and gave much thought to her costume. She came out finally in pink with green ribbons in her bonnet, and a
perfectly new crinoline. Roger, living then in Bayswater, warming a house that he intended to sell shortly at a
reasonable profit — not till ‘sixty-nine did he anchor himself permanently in Prince’s Gate — called for her with his
carriage of a new-fangled shape named ‘Victoria’ (always so unusual, Roger — eccentric, some people called it). On the
way down to Twickenham he had to sit back to the horses on a narrow little seat that came out from below the high box,
and was propped up with an iron stand; and he was so cross that it was quite a relief to them all three when they
arrived, and dear Mr. Small met them at the gate, looking most manly in a puggaree and white trousers — ‘ducks,’ Roger
called them, he was so droll. In his hand, too, he had a bunch of picotees, and held them to her nose with quite an
air. “These are for you, Miss Julia,” he said. Tucked into her fichu they went beautifully with her dress, and were so
fragrant; it would have been perfect if Roger had not closed his left eye quickly two or three times. As if —! Then
they all went into the house to meet Major Small and have light refreshment before going on the river.

‘Parsons’ Villa’ (Aunt Juley subsequently changed the name to Sunninglea) had not been built by Dewbridge, Small and
Keyman; it was in fact Georgian, on two floors, with French windows from the drawing-room on to the lawn, the river
close below, and a little island opposite. In the drawing-room were four persons, making eight in all for the picnic:
Major Small, a fine, full-bearded figure of a man, with a stiff leg, in a tussore suit; Hatty Chessman, always the life
and soul of any party, and —“Who do you think, my dear?”— Augustus Perry; almost famous for those delightful books with
music and rhymes in them, and his recitals at parties. It was he who made up that ‘Round’ which became so popular:

“A boat, a boat unto the ferry,
And we’ll go over and be merry,
And laugh and quaff and sing Down-derry.”

And he had witty variations for the last line, such as: “And laugh and quaff and drink brown sherry,” or: “And laugh
and quaff — Augustus Perry.”

Seated on a chintz-covered chair with a glass of sherry cobbler in her hand, and a bowl of lavender close to her
nose, Julia could not help looking at Mrs. Augustus Perry and wondering a little if she liked being the wife of anyone
so popular, so sought after as Gus Perry, who played the guitar, too. She was hoping so much that she herself would not
be in a boat with Roger — he was such a tease, especially if their dear host were in the same boat. And she hoped he
was noticing how brightly she was talking with Major Small; and indeed it was an honour to be talking to him, for after
all it was he who had the stiff leg, and was the hero; but all the time she contrived to watch their dear host and to
note that he looked a little anxious. Then they all went down across the lawn to the two boats, so graceful, with
striped cushions and brown varnish. It WAS a moment, not knowing in which boat she was to be, with Augustus Perry
cracking so many jokes. But her arm was taken gently, firmly, above the elbow by Mr. Septimus, and she was stepping
into a boat, and sitting down quite quickly beside her sister-inlaw on the stern seat.

“My dear,” she said, “I hope I am not required to steer. It’s such a responsibility.”

“Oh! I will steer, dear Juley,” replied her sister-inlaw.

Crinoline by crinoline they sat, and — so gratifying — who should step into the boat but dear Mr. Septimus himself,
and Augustus Perry. She could not help smiling when that droll Gus said:

“I shall take my coat off, Sep.”

And Mr. Septimus, always courtly, asked:

“Do you mind, ladies?” Indeed, they didn’t!

So both took their coats off, and placed the oars in the rowlocks. And then the boat glided out. It WAS delightful!
Julia felt, somehow, that not only herself, but dear little Mary beside her, who was looking so pretty, was glad that
dear Roger (even though he was her husband) was not in their boat. How beautifully they rowed, almost together;
Augustus Perry — his face was so round, without whiskers or anything — kept popping it out from behind Mr. Septimus’s
back, to make such amusing remarks. And then he ‘caught a crab’ on purpose! How they did laugh; he looked so droll! So
first they went up the stream, and then they came down the stream, with the water all green and the swans all white —
and landed on the little island opposite Parson’s Villa, where they found the picnic baskets — fancy! It WAS all
beautifully planned, and so romantic under the willow trees, with rugs for them to sit on, and Augustus Perry’s guitar,
quite like a picture by Watteau.

The lunch was exquisite: lobster salad, pigeon pie, tipsy cake, raspberries, and champagne: with plates and spoons,
forks and napkins, and a dear little water rat looking on. She had never enjoyed anything so much, and she was really
quite relieved when Major Small flirted outrageously with Hatty Chessman, and gave them no more anxiety. To be waited
on by their dear host was such a privilege, and Roger and Gus Perry were so droll; altogether it was enchanting. When
they had all finished lunch and the gentlemen were smoking their cigars, they sang some delightful ‘rounds’: ‘A boat, a
boat,’ ‘Three blind mice,’ ‘White sand and grey sand.’ Mr. Septimus’s voice was so manly — deep and hollow, almost like
an organ. Then they played hide-and-seek. Each in turn was allowed five minutes to hide from the others — such a clever
idea, so thoughtful. She herself hid among some willow bushes, and who do you think found her? Mr. Septimus: he was so
surprised! When they had all hidden it was time for tea, and such a to-do boiling the kettle. Roger, indeed — it was
just like him — suggested that they should leave the kettle and go over and have tea in the house; but that would have
destroyed all the romance. And when at last the kettle did boil, it would have been a delicious cup, only the water was
smoky. But nobody minded, because, of course, it was a picnic. Then came the moment when the other six got into one
boat and rowed away. It seemed quite providential. So she and their dear host helped the servants to pack everything in
the other boat to take over to the house. While they were doing that, she noticed that he coughed three times.

“I am sure,” she said, “dear Mr. Septimus, it’s too damp for you on the river so late. It is past six.” How good he
was about it!

“Let us sit on the lawn, then, Miss Julia,” he said, “and wait for the others to come back.”

So they sat under the cedar tree where it was beautifully cool, and quite private, for the branches came down very
low. She had quite a fluttery feeling, sitting there all alone with him for the first time. But he was so considerate,
talking about Southey. Did she like his poetry? He himself preferred Milton.

“I must confess, Mr. Septimus,” she said, “that I have not read ‘Paradise Regained,’ but Milton is certainly a very
beautiful poet — so sonorous.”

“And what do you think of Wordsworth, Miss Julia?”

“Oh! I love Mr. Wordsworth! I always feel he must have had such a beautiful character.”

As she said this she could not help wondering if he would ask her whether she read Byron. If he did, she should be
daring and say: ‘Yes, indeed!’ She did not want to have secrets from him, and she had been so impressed by ‘Childe
Harold,’ and ‘The Giaour.’ Of course Lord Byron had NOT had good principles, but she was sure dear Mr. Septimus would
never suspect her of reading anything that was not nice. There was ‘Don Juan’ in Timothy’s study — several volumes.
Hester had read them and been horrified. And when he did not ask her she felt quite disappointed; it would have drawn
them closer together, she was sure. But she could feel that he was shy about it; because he asked her instead whether
she liked the novels of Charles Dickens.

“Of course,” she said, “he is very clever, but I do think he writes about such very peculiar, such very common
characters; and there is so much about drinking in ‘The Pickwick Papers,’ though most people, I know, like them very
much. Do you admire ‘The Pickwick Papers,’ Mr. Septimus?”

“No, Miss Julia; it seems to me a very extravagant book.”

Time went so quickly under the cedar, and it would have been quite perfect if the midges had not bitten her
dreadfully through her stockings; for, of course, she could not scratch, or even say “La!” She did so wonder whether
they were biting him, too. The longer they sat there the more she felt that he did not take enough care of himself,
with no scarf on, in the evening air; he did so need someone to look after him. And so the midges bit, and she smiled,
and the boat came back, with Augustus Perry singing to his guitar. What an agreeable rattle he was, was he not? And how
romantic always — music on the water!

Then it all came to an end, and she drove home alone with dear little Mary in the Victoria, Roger refusing to sit
back to the horses on ‘that knife-board’ any more, and going off with Hatty Chessman in her brougham. Such a relief! It
had been such a — such a holy afternoon, and she did so want not to be teased about it . . . .

On the Bayswater Road that night she sat a long time at her window thinking of Septimus’s beard, and whether she
would dare to come to calling him ‘Sep,’ and whether he would ever ask her to let him go and see her eldest brother,
dear Jolyon — now that their father was dead . . . .

And then came their correspondence; that WAS a delightful experience. His letters sometimes contained a sprig of
lavender — his favourite scent; they were beautifully written, because of course he was an architect, and full of high
principle, so refined. Now and then, indeed, she would feel as if he might be too refined, because she had often read
the Marriage Service and — thought about what it meant, as who indeed would not? In her own letters she tried hard not
to be just gossipy, but like Maria Edgeworth. All that time she was knitting him a scarf. It had to be quite a secret,
and done in her bedroom, because if Timothy saw it he would be sure to say: “Is that for me?” And perhaps would add: “I
don’t want a great thing like that.” And if she said: “No, it’s not for you,” he would be quite upset and want to know
whom it was for; which would never do.

In August they went (Ann and Hester, herself and Timothy) to Brighton for the sea air, and in a letter she happened
to mention it to Septimus — always Septimus in her thoughts. Imagine her surprise, then, when on the third day she saw
him sitting on the pier. It gave her such a colour. Timothy stopped short at once.

“Why! That’s Sep Small! I’m off!” It showed how little he understood, or he would never have left her like that
alone with him. But what an adorable hour that was, hanging over the pier by his side. He knew such a lot about marine
things — he pressed seaweed, and could not bear nigger-minstrels. He told her, too, that the sea air was good for his
cough, and she was sure he had noticed her hat, for he said in such a far-away voice: “I dote on these pork-pie hats
you see about, Miss Julia, and the veils are so sensible!” And there was hers floating almost against his cheek. It was
all so friendly and delightful; and she did long to ask him to come back with her to lunch at their hotel so that she
could get out his scarf and say: “I have a little surprise for you, dear Mr. Septimus,” and clasp it round his neck;
but she felt it would make a ‘how-de-do’! It would be too dreadful if Timothy showed anything by his manner; and
sometimes he showed such a lot, especially if he were kept waiting for meals. For, of course, neither he nor dear Ann,
nor even Hester, knew anything about her feelings for dear ‘Sep’; so on the whole it would be better not. And then — so
providential! — HE asked if he might escort her back to her hotel, and what COULD she say except that she would be
flattered! He looked so tall and aristocratic walking beside her, with his full beard, and a puggaree round his hat,
and his white, green-lined umbrella. She hoped, indeed, that people might be thinking: ‘What a distinguished couple!’
Many hopes flitted in her mind while they strolled along the front, and watched the common people eating winkles, and
smelled the tarry boats. And something tender welled up in her so that she could not help stopping to call his
attention to the sea, so blue with little white waves.

“I DO love Nature,” she said.

“Ah! Miss Julia,” he answered — she always remembered his words — “the beauties of Nature are indeed only exceeded
by those of — Tut! — I have a fly in my eye!”

“Dear Mr. Septimus, let me take it out with the corner of my handkerchief.”

And he let her. It took quite a long time; he was so brave, keeping his eye open; and when at last she got it out,
very black and tiny, they both looked at it together; it seemed to her to draw them quite close, as if they were
looking into each other’s souls. Such a wonderful moment! And then — her heart beat fast — he had taken her hand. Her
knees felt weak; she looked up into his face, so thin and high-minded and anxious, with a little streak where the eye
had watered; and something of adoration crept up among her pinkness and her pouts, into her light grey eyes. He lifted
her hand slowly till it reached his beard, and stooped his lips to it. Fancy! On the esplanade! All went soft and sweet
within her; her lips trembled, and two large tears rolled out of her eyes.

“Miss Julia,” he said, “Julia — may I hope?”

“Dear Septimus,” she answered, “indeed, you MAY.”

And through a mist she saw his puggaree float out in the delicious breeze, and under one end of it a common man stop
eating winkles, to stare up at her, as if he had seen a rainbow.